Finding Icarus
by The Treacle Tart
Summary: SLASH Neville decides it’s time to stop being afraid. He turns to Ron for help, but can Ron keep him from falling. COMPLETE.


**Title: Finding Icarus**   
**Rating:** PG-13   
**Challenge:** Ron teaches Neville to fly.   
**Summary:** Neville decides it's time to stop being afraid. He turns to Ron for help, but can Ron keep him from falling?   
**Warnings:** None.   
**Disclaimer**: Don't own. Don't profit. Don't ask. Don't tell.   
**Author Notes:** Many thanks to leftsockarchive for her help. All remaining errors are my own.

**Finding Icarus**

When he heard the Sorting Hat call out Gryffindor, his first thought was, "Really? Are you sure?" to which the hat replied, "Of course you daft twit, now move along. I've got a long night ahead of me."

Everyone seemed to be as stunned as Neville that he was placed in Gryffindor. They thought he had Hufflepuff written all over him. In truth, he would have been happy in any house as long as he was allowed to stay at Hogwarts. He half expected to be made the caretaker's apprentice. But to be placed in Gryffindor in the same year as Harry Potter was an honor. He made a promise to himself that he would live up to that honor.

Then he met Severus Snape and decided that perhaps it would be better to fade into the scenery. There was a certain safety in being considered useless, after all. No one thought enough of him to try to harm him. No one thought he was any sort of threat. It was enough to simply mock his ineptitude or taunt him with silly names and childish pranks, and Neville thought that was easy enough to handle.

By the time fifth year rolled around, however, Neville realized that blending into the scenery and hiding in Greenhouse 5 wouldn't always be an option. He was a bit sick of being the butt of jokes and the victim of Sytherin mischief. He was sick of tripping over his own feet and causing explosions all over the dungeons. Sick of needing everyone's help all the time.

Fighting a mob of incensed Death Eaters at the Department of Ministries at the end of the year showed him that he was made of sturdier stuff than others would have him believe. Neville was not the most gifted of warriors, or the bravest, but he held his own. Sitting in the infirmary with the others made him realize they were all needed. No one could be part of the scenery. No one could afford to be useless. He made a choice then, a choice not to be the prey any longer. There was no room for the faint of heart now. War was looming and the Light needed all the soldiers it could get. That included Neville Longbottom.

Neville practiced hard that following summer. Uncle Edgar dueled with him twice weekly. Great Aunt Bethesda knew quite a bit about potions and soon enough he could make a couple of dozen by memory, three of which were N.E.W.T. level. A neighbor tutored him in charms. An old family friend instructed him in transfigurations. And out of a lumpy bit of clay, a man slowly began to take shape.

It was just after his sixteenth birthday, his sixth year at Hogwarts a few weeks away. Neville sat on the porch of his grandmother's teetering old house, counting the stars on a remarkably cool August night. His lessons were going well. Better than he could have hoped for. More than anyone, including himself, could have anticipated. There was one major hurdle still left to jump, one dark cloud that had been hanging over his head since first year. Neville couldn't properly fly on a broomstick.

Neville had been afraid of flying since he was a very small boy. His gran had plied him with bedtime stories meant to warn a young child of the dangers of the world, but which succeeded in scaring the daylights out of him on a frequent basis. He'd had nightmares for years. Of all the stories she told, he remembered this particular one most vividly. He had heard it often enough.

There once was a man trying to escape a hateful king who wanted to harm him and his young son. The king controlled the land and the sea. Consequently, the only way to escape was in the air. So this man made wings for himself and his son-- huge wings like that of a bird all covered in feathers that he fastened together with wax.

"Keep near me and you'll be safe," he said to the boy.

He warned his only child not to fly too close to the sun, as it would melt the wax that kept his wings secure, and not to fly too close to the sea, as it would dampen the feathers and make it hard to fly.

"Keep near me and you'll be safe," he said again.

They flew through the air, into clouds, and high over the ground and sea. But the thrill of flying overwhelmed the boy and he began getting careless. He forgot his father's words, forgot to stay close and soared straight up towards the heavens and into the bright sun. And as he was warned, the wax holding his wings together melted from the heat. He fell to his death, drowning in the sea that quietly lapped below him.

Now Neville was not a dolt. He knew that in reality he couldn't fly too close to the sun, and that he didn't have wings made of feathers and wax. But Neville understood the point of the fable: the joy of flying, the sheer exhilaration and freedom that comes from soaring through the clouds, is enough to make one lose focus. To make one careless. Neville didn't fare too well on the ground most days. He wasn't sure he needed to take his chances in the air.

But Neville was preparing for war. He was preparing to protect people-- to keep little children from coming home to see their parents gone insane from merciless torture. To keep anyone else from having a scrapbook full of nothing but wrinkled gum wrappers. He might be called to a distant land, to ride a thestral again, probably sooner rather than later, and he needed to be prepared. With a sigh and a twinge of something indescribable in his belly, Neville went inside. He had a letter to write.

There was something he always admired about Ron Weasley. Something about the combination of a fiery temper and fierce loyalty that Neville looked to with a bit of awe. Something that always made him just a little bit jealous of Harry. There was also something about the combination of freckles and bright red hair that made him a little bit jealous of Hermione, but Neville chose not to dwell on that for too long.

He sent Ron a quick note-- a request for help. Within a week Ron was at his home, broomstick in hand, freckles and red hair just where Neville remembered them to be.

"Look mate, there really isn't anything to it. Brooms are made to fly. All you've got to do is give it a few suggestions of where to go." With his love of flying out in the open and his joy of helping a friend clearly imprinted on his face, Ron made it all seem so easy. Neville hopped on his broom and kicked off, shooting straight into the air and rocketing upwards, nearly ramming a flock of passing blackbirds. He landed back on solid ground with a heavy thud and bird feathers in his hair.

"That was more of a command than suggestion, Neville. A bit less enthusiasm next time."

"Right," Neville said blushingly, plucking a feather from behind his ear. "Got a bit ahead of myself there."

"It's all right," Ron assured him. "It was a good start. You've just got to learn to control it a bit more. The broom isn't in charge, mate. You are."

"Tell that to the broom," Neville muttered.

Ron choked back a laugh and gave Neville a crooked smile. "All right then, let's start again."

Neville nodded and mounted the broom once more. Ron walked over to him and placed his hand over Neville's.

"What's this broom done to you, that you're trying to choke it ? Loosen the death grip, all right?"

Neville nodded again, but said nothing, too spellbound with Ron's hands to form words. Ron was taller than him by a good bit, but Neville never realized how much bigger Ron was than he, as well. Not until a large, freckled hand covered his own, engulfing it in a surprisingly gentle grip. They were warm, his hands, and lightly calloused. Rough around the knuckles, but with clean fingernails that contrasted startlingly with Neville's own badly bitten ones. Neville watched the fine bones move under the skin as Ron shifted his fingers, captivated by the simple mechanics of the large hand.

"Earth to Neville. You okay there?" Ron's amused voice rang out, reminding him where he was and what he was supposed to be doing.

"Sorry," he managed.

"Neville," Ron said firmly, "You have to stop apologizing for every little thing."

"Sor-er...Right," he replied with a smile.

"Good, now look like I said there isn't much to it. Get a comfortable grip. Kick off lightly and hover."

Neville tried again and did better, but a gush of wind startled him and he fell back. He found himself flat on the ground, a rock pushing painfully into his lower back. Neville sighed as he stared up at the blue sky, hoping beyond hope that the earth would swallow him whole. Ron's bemused face leaned over his own and blocked Neville's view.

"Looks like you fell, mate."

Neville's frustration overpowered his reason and he spoke: "Brilliant observation, Ron. Apparently, getting attacked by a tank full of brains has done you some good."

"Neville!" Ron exclaimed. "Was that a joke?"

Neville thought for a moment and realized with a bit of alarm that, yes indeed, he had just told a joke. And it was rather good.

Ron laughed and grabbed Neville's hand, hoisting him up. "Good job. Now let's try this flying thing again. Perhaps a little closer to the ground."

It took a few tries to get the balance right, but soon enough Neville was able to kick off without lurching forward and float steadily without bobbing up and down. Ron showed him how to guide the broom, to turn sharply, to slow gently, to stop on command, and to pivot from side to side.

"Well done, Neville," he said after nearly two hours of instruction. "I think you're ready to do that up there." He pointed toward the cloud-filled sky.

"Up there?" Neville said with a slight tremor in his voice. "But we were doing so well down here."

"Yes, we were, which is why I feel you'd be better off up there."

"I need more practice," Neville stated emphatically.

"Absolutely," Ron agreed. "We are going to practice more. Up there."

"How about a break for lunch? You must be starving."

"Neville, what's wrong? I thought you wanted to learn to ride a broomstick."

"I do."

"Well then let's fly." Without waiting for a response, Ron kicked off hard and rose high into the air. Neville watched him soar until he was nothing more than a spot of red high above him. His heart was pounding in his chest and a familiar fear was creeping into his veins. No matter how much Neville wanted to, he could not follow. After nearly fifteen minutes, Ron understood and returned to the ground.

"You really are scared, aren't you?" Ron asked, sounding very surprised.

Neville couldn't answer. Despite having loads of experience with it, he hated disappointing people. Of all the people who'd seen him fail, however, none had bothered him so much as Ron.

"You know what Neville? You think too much. You're scaring yourself when you are perfectly capable of doing this. You rode a thestral without much problem; why is a broom so much worse?"

He wanted to explain, wanted to make Ron understand. Nothing was easy for Neville Longbottom. There was a part of him that was brave. There was a part of him that was strong. There was a part of him that knew he could fly and that he would love it, that he would love soaring though the clouds, racing birds, and turning cartwheels in mid-air.

The problem was that there was this other part, a part that was afraid of happiness. A part that was afraid of enjoying anything, because it seemed that whenever Neville grew comfortable, whenever he grew happy, something went wrong. Someone went away. Someone got hurt. He knew this in his heart. He knew it was his lot in life and he had accepted it long ago. It was only recently that he decided he couldn't simply allow it; he had to fight. But _wanting_ to fight it didn't mean he truly knew how to accomplish the task.

Neville understood all this and came to terms with it in his way. But how to explain it to Ron, how to make someone else understand that it was not merely a fear of flying but a fear of leaving the ground. It was a fear of possibly never wanting to touch the ground again and the knowledge that it could never be so.

"I'm not afraid of flying," he finally said solemnly. "I'm afraid of liking it."

Ron brought his broom next to Neville's and they both sat perched, hovering over the ground, Ron's brow creased in confusion. "I don't get it Neville. Isn't that a good thing? Isn't that what you want?"

Neville made it a point never to want anything. It made life too complicated. "I don't know any more."

"You won't get hurt. I'm right here." Ron moved a bit closer.

Neville looked at his friend, at his concerned eyes and ruffled red hair. He wondered idly if that hair would burn his fingers if he touched it. He wondered if he would melt like wax if he got too close. Was it safer to just stay away and keep his feet firmly planted on the ground? "What if I fly too close to the sun?" Neville asked softly, a small smile on his round face.

Neville didn't really expect an answer to that question. He expected Ron to walk away saying that he'd had enough. That Neville was useless and very clearly insane. What he hadn't expected was Ron to whisper, "Keep near me and you'll be safe."

Neville looked up, startled, his heart beating madly in his chest and the blood in his veins burning. Ron's face was much closer to him than he had expected. Without warning, Ron leaned in and placed a gentle kiss on Neville's lips. Neville had kissed a girl before. Actually Ginny had kissed him after the Yule Ball a couple of years back. He took it only as a 'thank you' sort of kiss and never really thought much of it again. It was nice, but he couldn't help thinking that the whole kissing thing was highly over-rated. Now it was all he could do to keep from falling off the broom.

He understood quickly what it meant to get lost in a kiss, to concentrate so strongly on the gentle pressure of soft lips that one forgets the rest of the world exists. When a warm tongue is added, it is impossible to even remember one's own name.

Neville's hand went up and rested on Ron's chest, while Ron's own hand found its way onto Neville's waist. Slowly Neville allowed his hand to roam, traveling up Ron's torso, over his chest, past his chin and into his flaming red hair. And while Neville felt he might melt, he had no fear of falling, because he knew Ron would hold him close.

It seemed like hours had passed when they finally pulled away and it wasn't nearly enough. Ron smiled and spoke: "I told you, you think too much."

Neville looked down and realized what Ron had meant. He was so distracted that he didn't realize they had floated high into the air, and that they were hovering among the clouds. Neville began to laugh. "I guess I just needed a good diversion."

"I thought as much," Ron said with a slanted grin. "Now if you want any more diversions, you're going to have to catch me." He leaned forward and shot through the air, away from Neville.

Neville didn't stop to think about the fact that he was happy, and flying, and not falling. Thinking things out hadn't really done him much good before. Instead he concentrated on Ron, his own bit of sunlight, and wondered if one could really ever get close enough.

_Finis_


End file.
